From His Window
by Lily Among the Thorns
Summary: Severus Snape sees so much, from his window. (A little bit of angsty drabblings.)
1. anathema, i will remain

**Disclaimer/Author's Note:** Just a little something random I started writing in study hall the other day. I was in a bit of an angsty mood, so I decided to write a little Sev drabble. He didn't seem to mind me sneaking into his house, so we were all good about that. There's a whole 'nother chapter I could post, but I'll only do so if y'all like this first one, here. So, okay... no specific time setting, really, so we'll call it Post-OotP. As always, loves, nothing belongs to me, it's all the lovely JK Rowling's. So, bow down and worship her. Then, enjoy my little ficlet!

* * *

From his window, he stared out at the brisk winter day, studying it and trying not to remember similar days long past. The snow fell in perfect, crisp, white flakes, harsh like life, not fluffy like the soft cotton of a dream. It was better this way. Frost spun its intricate web across the green-stained glass of his window, a beautiful warning of the bitter air outside, a remainder that he could look, but should by no means touch something as lovely.

Nevertheless, he laid a hand on the icy pane, watching with sad black eyes as the delicate lace melted at his touch. Quickly gone from his grasp, like all things of natural beauty. Such things were not meant for him, after all. He had forsaken them long ago. He was not a better man for it.

Briefly, he caught a glimpse of his reflection, as the black tapers wavered in their light. He had come to abhor that reflection, the hideous image of himself, sallow and cadaverous, the beauty of you never having painted its cheeks, but simply passing over him to bestow its gifts upon more worthy individuals. He did not begrudge this; he had grown used to his own ugliness. But, he often felt that outside revealed what lay beneath; his past deeds still lingered in the depths of his very being. What he regretted most however, was that he could never atone for those offenses tattooed on his soul, more permanent than the mark that burned into his arm.

He sighed then, long and heavy, a sigh full of regrets and lost opportunities and futile emotion. The past was not worth dwelling on, he told himself; it could not be changed.


	2. we picked up the shards

**Disclaimer/Author's Note:** Okay... I broke down. No reviews, but I posted Chapter Two, anyway. It was just sitting there all lonely on my hard drive. Besides, I think this one is better than the first. It's angstier, but less self-depreciating that Chapter One. There's a little hint of Snape/Sinistra... if you get the Astronomy references. No specific incidents in mind. So... enjoy this one more than the first chapter.

* * *

From his window, he looked out, just as he had always done. He stared blankly, seeing nothing beyond the broken green glass. Tracing the cracks with his fingers, he studied the neat hole that remained, where smooth, solid window had once been. Feeling the jagged edges, his brow furrowed in expression of the cool, emotionless melancholy upon which he had built his life.

A tear dripped down his sunken cheek, and landed neatly next to minuscule pools of stagnant red, glaring up at him from the sill. They did not meet the hot saline, but only neighbored them contemptuously. Their angry crimson made him cringe. He did not want to think about where they came from.

He began to turn away, but the shimmering little shards caught his eye. They looked like stars, through his blurred vision, in the pattern of the Serpent Bearer. Only, one star was missing. And in the place of Sinistra, was another violently stationary drop of vermillion. His lip curled in disgust, for himself, and for anything else he could think to hate. But particularly for those mocking stars and their accomplices. They existed to taunt him. They made him sick.

His stomach lurched, as if her were about to vomit. But he remained rooted to the spot. He was still too shocked to move. But nothing had happened.

With trembling lips and arms, he raised his left hand to eye level. Skin was torn, bone shone through, and blood covered what would have been ghostly white knuckles. Skeletal fingers were clenched now, frozen in such a position. His hand ached.

He had let his anger get the best of him.


	3. a better pastime

**Author's Note/Disclaimer:** Own nothing. That much should be obvious. I'm trying to make these a bit longer... there are two more in the making, I should warn you. This one probably makes less sense than the last. But dreamy, nonsensical sorts make the best kind of drabbles, to me. An enormous thanks to my sole reviewer; I hope this one lives up to your expectations.

* * *

From his window, he felt the outside air intrude upon his solitude; it had always relished doing so, and what better time than now? The tinted glass remained unrepaired, and the radiant sunshine that poured in seemed vulgar, to him. It should not be allowed to touch him, a faded _bete noire_ with only a scrap of his pride still intact. If his relationship with beauty was to die, then he would rather the act was reciprocated.

A gossamer butterfly floated past, innocently hovering before him as though it did not know that it was supposed to despise his aura. Naivete was no excuse, though it had been once. He felt his brow crease in a deep scowl, as the little insect departed. He took no pleasure in its sight. He took no pleasure in watching the rest of the world fly by on silent wings. They were both so fragile, after all. Then again, he supposed, he was fragile, as well. But it was a subject he preferred not to visit.

He crossed his arms, to ward off the warmth that attempted to spread through his chest. It felt off, somehow, the dewy air penetrating his usual icy demeanor in an attempt to soften him as a whole. The entire somesthesia was wrong, this day. His muscles tensed, and he resisted the mortal urge to succumb to the seduction of such sultry weather. It was lavishly wrong, the perception of pleasure at something which he should have hated. Knew he abhorred. Because such things were beyond his reach, as usual.

It was terribly attractive, that one clear patch amidst blurry images, smeared with grey-green. He could hardly blame himself for the desire to welcome it. But he could not, should not. For he knew the consequences of disrupting the natural order of things. He knew his place. And that place was alone, amongst iron and stone and all things dull and gray and unwelcome in the vividly colorful world around him.

He would be shut out, once again.


End file.
